Winter-Song
Oh, who would be sad tho’ the sky be a-graying,And meadow and woodlands are empty and bare;For softly and merrily now there come playing,The little white birds thro’ the winter-kissed air.
The squirrel’s enjoying the rest of the thrifty,He munches his store in the old hollow tree;Tho’ cold is the blast and the snow-flakes are driftyHe fears the white flock not a whit more than we.
Chorus:
Then heigho for the flying snow!Over the whitened roads we go,With pulses that tingle,And sleigh-bells a-jingleFor winter’s white birds here’s a cheery heigho!